


Fame for a Pot of Ale

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bad Attitude, Beer, Being a Brat, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Slippering, Spanking, Underage Drinking, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riley doesn't approve of how Dylan celebrates the Larkin Hat Trick. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fame for a Pot of Ale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveforhockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveforhockey/gifts).



> Set after the Buffalo game in which Dylan got a goal, an assist, and a chipped tooth.

“I would give all my fame for a pot of ale.”—William Shakespeare 

Fame for a Pot of Ale

Curled on his hotel bed, Dylan sipped at the Sam Adams he had bought at the open twenty-four-seven CVS pharmacy—where the checkout girl with hot pink hair sleeked into spikes and many piercings, including a ring in her nostril that made Dylan’s nose throb again as it remembered the abuse it had taken that night, hadn’t bothered to ask for his ID, whether because she was enough of a rebel to condone drinking that might be underage, or because Dylan had treated her to the sweetest smile he could manage with a freshly chipped tooth. The beer stung the cuts in the side of his mouth that the chips of his tooth had carved and tasted like the cotton gauze he had stuffed up his nose. It was a very disappointing beer—all things considered—to have as his first beer since before training camp started, but he told himself that the alcohol would relieve the pain in his nostrils and mouth before he went to sleep and kept drinking. 

The sound of a key rattling in the lock—thank God, this hotel still used keys rather than cards, or else Dylan would have zero warning when Riley was about to enter—startled Dylan, who slopped beer down the front of his T-shirt. Streaming swear words that were muffled by the gauze jammed up his nose, he shoved the half-empty Sam Adams into the trash can by his nightstand with a clatter of glass against metal and yanked the blankets up to his chin to conceal his damp clothing. He had just completed these frantic maneuvers as Riley came in, shutting the door in his wake. 

“What the hell is that smell?” Riley’s nose twitched like a dog that had scented a rabbit, because as a teetotaler who had once enjoyed booze a bit too much, he could detect a drop of alcohol in any room within a second or two. It was like watching a shark find the single speck of blood in an ocean. 

“You.” Dylan waved a palm in front of his face, and then realized an instant later that this was a bad decision, as it fanned the alcohol on his breath around the room. “Might want to try a stronger deodorant or something.” 

“There’s beer on your breath.” His eyes snake slits, Riley bent over, supporting himself by pressing his hands against Dylan’s mattress, and glowered into Dylan’s flushing face. 

“Get out of my face.” Inwardly cursing his ancestors for giving him the genetic basis for a complexion so pale that any flush made his face turn into a stop sign, Dylan tried to twist away from Riley. 

Unfortunately, Riley was too quick for him. Seizing a fistful of Dylan’s T-shirt, he rapped out,   
“You’ve spilled beer all over yourself, kid.” 

“Not all over myself,” retorted Dylan. “I didn’t fucking shower in the stuff, so don’t make it sound as though I did.” 

“Watch your tone.” Riley released Dylan’s T-shirt and clutched Dylan’s shoulder instead. 

“My tone is invisible.” Dylan emitted a snort that was mostly swallowed by the wad of gauze. “How am I supposed to watch something unseen? Hire the Ghost Hunters?” 

“Your attitude will get you into as much trouble as your drinking.” Riley gave Dylan’s shoulder a stern shake. “You don’t deny that you were drinking, either, just that you are all covered in beer.” 

“So what if I was drinking?” snapped Dylan, deciding that if his face was on fire the least the rest of him could do was match. 

“The law cares that you were drinking.” Riley’s jaw clenched. “You’re underage, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

“Underage is a slippery term.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “I’m old enough to sign a contract but not old enough to have a celebratory beer afterward. I’m old enough to serve in the army but not buy alcohol. If there’s ever a stupid, arbitrary rule it’s the one that makes the legal age for drinking twenty-one when the legal age for being an adult is eighteen.” 

“It’s not up to you to decide which laws are stupid.” A vein on the verge of exploding pulsed in Riley’s neck. “Your job is just to obey them, Dylan.” 

“Lecture yourself why don’t you?” Dylan sneered. “I’m not the one who drove around in a Tellytubby costume after getting blitzed out of my cranium.” 

“I made a bad decision, I suffered the consequences for it, and I’ve reformed myself, which is why the team is having you live with me, because they know that I won’t have alcohol around my place.” Riley wrapped his hands around Dylan’s wrists. Before Dylan could yank out of his grasp, Riley had tugged Dylan over his knee. As he slid down Dylan’s shorts and briefs, Riley added grimly, “You’ve made a bad decision, and I’m going to make sure that you suffer the consequences, so you can reform yourself.” 

“You screwed up worse than I did,” howled Dylan, aiming vicious kicks at every part of Riley he could reach as Riley’s palm rained hard smacks on his burning backside. “You have no right to punish me for making a bad decision. Fuck off.” 

“Your attitude is utterly unacceptable and will earn you a worse punishment, Dylan.” Riley emphasized this declaration with a series of the harshest swats he had yet delivered to Dylan’s rump, and Dylan could feel Riley’s body jerk as his other hand scrounged around the carpet. He apparently found whatever he was seeking, because he ceased his search, and the slap that next landed on Dylan’s buttocks definitely did not come from a palm. 

Yelping like a puppy abandoned in a downpour, Dylan craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the new instrument of punishment that Riley was wielding, and his breath caught on a hook in his throat when he saw a slipper with a leather sole flying toward his behind again. 

“Slipper got your attention, huh?” Riley’s tone was a shade too conversational for the circumstances, as far as Dylan was concerned considering he was continuing to administer strong spanks with the slipper. 

Not trusting himself to speak when it was his big mouth that had gotten him a taste of the slipper, Dylan just nodded and blinked back tears, regretting that he had ever purchased the Sam Adams that had loosened his tongue enough for him to think that he could get away with mouthing off to Riley. 

“Good,” Riley went on, while Dylan, suffering another smack from the slipper, thought that nothing about this situation could be described as remotely good except by a sadist or a masochist. He knew he wasn’t a masochist, and he could only hope that Riley wasn’t a slipper-wielding sadist. “Now that you’re listening, I’ll say that I have every right to punish you for your bad decisions because you are my rookie, and it’s my responsibility to do that, just as it’s my responsibility to keep you from drinking while you are under my charge. I also may have made a bad decision, but I don’t believe that it’s fair it should be held against me for the rest of my life when I’ve learned from it and reformed myself.” 

“I’m sorry,” burst out Dylan, because while the slipper hurt, it was nothing compared to the guilt of realizing just how hurtful his remarks about Riley’s past drinking were. “I didn’t mean what I said, Riley. It just came out of my mouth without me thinking about it.” 

“That’s obvious.” Riley didn’t let up with the slipper despite the apology. “If you had thought about what you were saying, it would’ve occurred to you that, because I’ve made that bad decision, I’m better equipped to notice when others are making a bad decision.” 

Tears trickled down Dylan’s cheeks as Riley carried on cutting into his butt with the horrible slipper that Dylan never wanted to see again after this ordeal, asking, “So, why was drinking a bad decision, kid?” 

“It’s illegal.” Sniffling, Dylan mopped at his eyes. 

“Exactly.” An extra harsh swat hit Dylan’s exposed, fiery rear. “And if you got caught by someone less friendly than me, the consequences could be much worse than a spanking. You’re risking your hockey career for beer. If you look up ‘stupid’ in the dictionary, that’s the kind of definition you’ll see next to it. Now, where’s your stash of beer?” 

“I don’t have a stash.” Dylan couldn’t keep a trace of indignation out of his voice, which earned him the worst slaps he had yet experienced from the slipper. 

“Don’t lie to me.” Riley’s tone was as uncompromising as the slipper now whacking away at the under-curves of Dylan’s backside. 

“I’m not lying,” protested Dylan, gasping for air between spanks. “I just have one beer. It’s in the trash can. I hid it when I heard you coming in.” 

Something in Dylan’s manner seemed to satisfy Riley for, after a final stinging slap from the slipper, he pulled up Dylan’s shorts and underwear, stating, “No more underage drinking or this spanking will seem like a couple of love taps.” 

Snuffling an acknowledgement of this warning, Dylan watched as Riley fumbled in the garbage by his nightstand and removed the beer. Squeezing Dylan’s shoulder, Riley pressed, “You’re sure this is the only beer you’ve got?” 

“I’m sure.” Dylan nodded and bit his tongue to hold back a sarcastic comment about not being drunk enough to forget how many beers he had brought. 

“You better be.” Riley’s gaze locked on Dylan’s like a laser. “If I find any more beer hidden in this room or catch you drinking again before you are of age, I’ll take a belt to you.” 

“I promise I don’t have any more beer in here.” Dylan’s eyes widened as much in earnestness as in fear at the threat of being belted. 

“All right.” Riley patted Dylan’s shoulder and then ruffled his hair before spinning on his heel and striding toward the bathroom, Sam Adams in his hand. “I’m going to flush this shit down the toilet. You change out of that T-shirt, because you stink like you just fell into a distillery.” 

As Riley disappeared into the bathroom, Dylan slipped out of his T-shirt. He had just finished pulling another, not beer-soaked one over his head when he heard the toilet flush and saw Riley emerge from the bathroom a second later. 

“I care about you, Dylan.” Riley wrapped Dylan in a hug before Dylan could process what was happening, but Dylan longed for affection and comfort after being torn into by the slipper more than he wanted to satisfy his pride by holding himself aloof from all offered solace, so he merely melted against Riley chest, letting the humming of Riley’s heart lull him into a daze like a lullaby. “That’s why I won’t allow you to get away with bad decisions that could damage your life and why I won’t tolerate you behaving like a brat.” 

“I’m sorry I was so bad.” Even to his own ears, this sounded lame, but Dylan couldn’t think of anything better to say, and he was afraid that not replying at all would make him seem rebellious or sullen. “Really I am.” 

“You’re a star.” Riley swept the hair away from Dylan’s forehead and brushed his lips across it in a swift kiss. “We just don’t need you developing a star attitude or engaging in whacky star hijinks.”


End file.
